Wesley said, "Let who go?"
"My sister and I."
"Good try! I'm afraid that's out of the question, though. Name something realistic."
"Like what?"
"How about a Pepsi?"
Thelma snorted again.
"Okay," the girl said. "But one for Alice, too."
"Alice can win her own."
"If she can't have one, I don't want one, either."
Wesley blew smoke at her. "Have it your way. I'm trying to be nice, offer you a prize. Where's your gratitude?"
Erin said nothing.
Wesley took a puff, then gave a nod to Thelma.
She stepped up behind Erin, reached around her, and ripped open the front of her blouse. She peeled the blouse off the girl's shoulders and down her back. Then she stepped aside and tossed it to the floor.
Erin was bare down to her kilt. She had narrow, fragile shoulders. Her back was smooth and tanned, and looked as if it might've had a few days to heal since her last beating. It had seen a lot of abuse, though. Along with livid blotches, there were several old, fading yellowish bruises. Along with numerous crusty brown scabs that criss-crossed her back, she had pale, shiny pink stripes where older scabs had come off.
She just stood in from of Wesley, arms hanging by her sides, not even trying to cover herself.
The mirror gave me a side view of her breasts. They came to points and looked like small, soft cones. They were almost as tanned as her back.
"Lovely," Wesley said. "You're a very lovely girl, Erin."
She didn't respond.
"When someone gives you a compliment, you're supposed to say thank you."
Thank you," she mumbled.
"I'd like you to put up a good fight, tonight," he told her. "No slacking, like last time."
She just stood there, limp, her head and arms hanging.
"Let's start the fun," he said.
Thelma's blue satin robe fell to the floor. She looked as if she'd watched a lot of television wrestling, the way she stomped toward Erin.
But this was no "gorgeous lady of wrestling."
This was a monster, battle-scarred, growling, hunched over, arms open, fingers hooked like claws. She attacked from behind, hugged Erin, hoisted her up, swung her around and hurled her.
Flung her in my direction.
The girl came toward me, feet first. Under her kilt, she was bare all the way to her waist.
In midair, she made a frightened noise as if she suddenly realized she had a long way to fall.
She hit the hardwood floor, thudding and bumping as she tumbled, letting out whimpers and grunts, her skin squeaking as she skidded. When she came to a stop, she just lay there on her back and sobbed. Her kilt was up around her hips. I had a hell of a view. I felt guilty, looking. I couldn't help looking, though, I mean, the way she was sprawled out on the floor with her feet no more than about two yards in front of my window.
It ran through my mind that I ought to help her.
But what could I do? I'm not a big guy. I didn't have a gun. My only weapon was the straight razor in the pocket of my shorts. If I just tried to Rambo my way in and save the day, Thelma would wipe me out. She probably wouldn't even need Wesley's help.
I watched her storm across the floor, her huge breasts swinging and flopping. Her eyes were fixed on Erin.
Who didn't even try to get up or defend herself.
"Fight, ya little twat," Thelma gasped. She clamped the girl's head between her ankles and hopped. Erin's trapped head was jerked up off the floor, then slammed down.
Then Thelma dropped on top of her.
A lot happened, after that -- nasty stuff I don't want to write about.
I'm ashamed of myself for watching. Looking back on it now, I know that I should've done whatever I could to stop it. But I was enthralled. Horrified and disgusted, but entranced. I'd never seen anything like this before. As much as I felt sorry for Erin and wanted to help her, I couldn't force myself to stop watching the spectacle.
I told myself there was nothing I could do, anyway.
Which was pure shit. I could've stopped it. One way or another.
Didn't want to, that was the thing.
The girl never did put up any struggle.
Thelma didn't let that stop her. She stripped off Erin's knee socks, wrestled her, squeezed her, tugged the kilt down Erin's legs, kissed her and sucked her and bit her, pinched her, twisted her, slapped and probed her.
They were a rolling tangle of bare flesh. Both of them gasping for air. Both of them groaning and whimpering. Both shiny with sweat and spittle and God-knows-what.
I watched from my window.
Wesley watched from his chair across the room, puffing cigarettes, leaning forward, eyes fixed on the action. He squirmed around a lot. Sometimes, he licked his lips.
I only glanced at him from time to time. Mostly, I watched Thelma and Erin.
By the time I noticed that Wesley had gotten out of his chair, he no longer had his shorts on. His belt was gone, too. He wore nothing but his bandages. His cigarette holder jutted upward from between his teeth, and smoke drifted into his right eye as he strolled toward the women.
His penis led the way, big and solid, pointing at the ceiling.
From his right hand dangled a length of electric cord. (I don't know where it came from -- hadn't noticed it before.) Its end trailed along on the floor beside him.
When he got to where Thelma was working on Erin, he began to use the cord on them. He didn't seem to care whether he hit Thelma or the girl. Either of them seemed fine with him.
He started off by casually flicking them with the cord. Toying with them. Slowly, though, he worked himself into a frenzy. He became like a madman. Wild-eyed, huffing for breath, slobbering down his chin, he pranced around them, swinging the cord so hard it whistled. It cracked against their skin. Made them jerk rigid with pain. They writhed and shrieked and bled on the floor.
Through all of this, Thelma never stopped holding on to Erin. Never stopped offering the girl's body to Wesley's lash. And never stopped hurting Erin with her own hands and mouth.
Again, I don't want to dwell on all the nasty details.
I'll skip to the finish.
This is how it ended -- with Thelma on her back on the floor, Erin on top of her.
Thelma used her arms and legs to pin the girl to her -- face up and spread-eagled. They were both very bloody from the whipping and other things that had been done to them. But now, with Thelma holding Erin helpless, Wesley dropped on top of them both.
He raped Erin.
While he did it, Thelma went nuts on the bottom as if she was the one getting screwed.
Then it was over.
They unpiled. Thelma and Wesley took Erin by her arms, helped her up, and walked her out of the room.
I sank down against the wall under the window, shaky and exhausted. Dazed by what I'd seen.
I wished I hadn't watched.
Also, though, I wished I could get to see it all again.
I know, sick.
The thing is, you don't get a chance to see something like that every day.
Like a car accident.
Only better.
Never mind. I know I shouldn't have watched. I should've risked my life to stop it. But I didn't. How come?
A. I'm a miserable, horny pervert.
B. I didn't even know the girl.
C. Thelma and/or Wesley would've killed me.
D. I owe my allegiance to Kimberly, Billie and Connie, not to some stranger.
E. All of the above.
After The Game
After they left the room, I didn't know where they might be. I figured they would probably return pretty soon, though, if only to gather their clothes and put out the candles and lamps. You don't leave flames untended, not for long. Not unless you want to burn down your house.
I could burn the place down!
Standing up, I peered through the window.
Nobody'd come back into the room, yet.
All I needed to do was remove the window screen (or slit it with my razor), climb in and spread around some kerosine, toss a candle . . .
And maybe burn up Kimberly, Billie and Connie -- not to mention Erin and her sister, Alice.